Beep. Beep.
The steady, annoying beeping sound was on repeat, both aggravating and reassuring – Sherlock was still fighting, still alive.
He was lying in the hospital bed (private, of course) pale and cold – but not deathly cold. Not yet.
But nearly.
Holding the motionless man's limp hand was Mycroft, who's usually expressionless face was showing his despair, not quite hidden from the world he deduced so easily.
He sighed. "How could you do this to yourself? How could you let it come to this? The slow and steady destruction of one of the most intelligent men on the planet due to drugs. Why do you do this to yourself?"
As expected the unconscious man didn't reply, but remained limp and still. Sherlock's face, even in unconsciousness stayed cold and hard, and Mycroft knew that if you lifted one of his eyelids his eyes would be intelligent, sharp, piercing, deducing almost everything about you in a moment.
The only two sounds in the room after Mycroft's impassioned outburst were his heavy breathing and the steady beep of the heart monitor.
It had been the only sound for the last day, not even the doctor's entering the room except for necessity – something about the two cold men frightened them without them even consciously realising it.
"But, no matter what, you're still my brother."